John Barnes - Directive 51

Jason had been walking along 64 for about forty minutes, ever since the bus’s front tires both burst while the guy was trying to slow on a downgrade, and he’d slid sideways into a disabled semi in a runaway lane. That had scared the piss out of Jason, the three old Indian ladies, and the two servicemen on leave—all the passengers on the bus—but it had not been at all as bad as it seemed; the bus had not rolled, and the bump against the semi trailer had been at less than ten miles an hour, just a sort of steel-to-steel kiss really. So after all the fear, there they were, off the road, bus upright, able to take their stuff off, and the bus driver had had a working phone, so he’d called for someone to come and pick everyone up with a van from Taos, not far away.

Except he’d conspicuously not mentioned Jason, and the moment he’d gotten off the phone he’d said, “So you, get lost. You’re not riding with us.”

“What?” Jason couldn’t believe this. “I paid for my ticket like anyone else.”

“Yeah, but you got long hair and a beard and you look like a fuckin’ hippie, kid. And everything was fine all the way from Lubbock, till you got on my bus, and now my tires are gone and they smell like moldy cheese. That might be a coincidence and it might not. So I’m splitting the difference. They said to be alert for Daybreakers, and maybe you are and maybe you ain’t. You look like a hippie and you got on the bus at one weird time. But I’m not turning you in—unless you decide to act like a shithead—but I’m not giving you no ride, either. Argue and go talk to the sheriff, or start walkin’—don’t be around here when the van gets here.”

One of the servicemen, an Army sergeant, had tried to intervene on Jason’s behalf, but Jason could see that all this was going to do was strand two of them, or maybe three if his buddy backed him, so Jason said it didn’t matter, he wasn’t going to ride with people who treated him like shit, and walked off with his pack on his shoulder.

64 was usually pretty empty but tonight it was really-o truly-o empty, like a walk through a pine-scented void with brilliant stars. The crescent moon shed just enough light to silver the east-facing rock cliffs of the mountains and reveal the rest as dark lumpy shadows. It was cold and quiet, a perfect chance to think and reflect, if he’d had enough energy to form an actual thought. He kept putting one foot in front of the other; no sense freezing or giving up when it was mostly downhill anyway.

When he finally heard a truck behind him, Jason didn’t believe it at first, but as the headlights flashed around the bends up the mountain from him, he stuck out his thumb. A second miracle happened; the truck slowed and pulled over into a turnout. Jason ran to the passenger side.

The truck driver, a plump, balding man with aviator glasses, did not look friendly or welcoming.

“How’d you end up out here tonight?”

Jason answered without thinking, “The bus got two flats, and the driver threw me off for looking like a hippie.”

“Hunh. I saw the bus back there a ways. You’ve been walking a while.”

“Yeah.” Jason thought for a second. “I don’t know how to prove I’m not a Daybreaker except, you know, I’m carrying a laptop computer, and they’re supposed to be all anti-tech.”

“That’s a start. What were you traveling for?”

“Following a bunch of coustajam concerts.” It was lame but the only thing he could think of offhand. “I had this idea that I’d pick up enough advertising money by covering them on the net.”

“How’d it work out?”

“Complete flop. I’m living on money my dad sends, and I was planning to go home to Connecticut after the last three big concerts, work for him to pay off all the money he sent, and then go back to college and finish it.”

The man was smiling slightly. “So you’re actually just a classic spoiled rich kid and not a crazy hippie asshole who tried to destroy our country?”

“That’s about it.”

“Well, come on aboard. You and me are gonna wipe down all my tires with hospital disinfectant, which is what the truck is loaded with, and we’ll do that once an hour till you get to—where you going?”

“Tres Piedras. It’s not far.”

“Well, you can help me wipe here, and then just before I let you off, and keep me awake in between.”

Sloshing and scrubbing with the foul-smelling disinfectant, on the dark road, trying to keep up with the speed the driver was working, it occurred to Jason that he’d had worse times. When they climbed into the cab, there was even coffee from the autocafé and the pleasure of sun coming up behind them with the high mountains all around.

I’m really not a bad spy. Jason and the driver traded the little stories that strangers do to stay awake; his cover story gave him a chance to talk about his family. He was surprised that he worried about them and missed them, and hardly had to do any acting at all.

On the first ring, Chris Manckiewicz rolled out of bed, grabbed his phone from the nightstand, saw it was Norcross’s campaign, and achieved enough coherence to accept the call. Press conference in ten minutes, meeting room downstairs, blah blah blah, could he be there?

Also, probably in less than an hour they’d be clearing for a flight to DC—total change of plans—if Chris could come to the press conference with his bags packed, would he like to do an exclusive in the air?

“I’m packed.” He never went to bed without having packed his whole grip and laid out clothes for the next day. “And I’ll be in the press room before your candidate is.”

He even had time to comb his hair, brush his teeth, and message 247NN to open a channel.

“Okay, the Internet connection cannot possibly be down here at SRI,” Cicolina said into the phone. “We created the Internet right here back in 1969. We had Internet when it had two terminals worldwide. And we built it to never go down, ever.”

“I know that, sir, I’m sorry, I’m just reporting—” There was a squawk and a hiss, and when Cicolina tried to call back, there was no dial tone.

He turned to face the room of engineers and scientists, many of them in sweatpants, raggy T-shirts, and other night clothing; it looked like none of them had combed their hair, ever, but then they always looked that way. Not a pretty sight, but it was probably the best collection of brains on the planet, and considering Weisbrod had only called him an hour and a half ago, this was pretty damned good. The things we do for our old teachers.

Cicolina said, “All right, this is going to be tougher than we thought. Let’s see what we can do; we always knew we might have to save the world.”

They applauded. He thought, Hey, as a motivational speaker, I guess I’m better than I thought I was . Then the lights went out.

By the time they made it up the staircase to ground level, by the emergency light, the mood was shot; everyone wanted to go home to family and friends.

He thought he’d lost them till they discovered all the flat tires in the parking lot, and that a good third of their cars wouldn’t start, with great wads of nasty white stuff under the hood. For some reason, that pissed them all off, and they started dividing into teams to work on the problem of how to do a “cold start” on advanced civilization.

As he looked at the swarm of men and women bent in little knots around whiteboards and notepads, hastily relocated to the sunny second floor on the south side of the building, Cicolina said, “Reminds me of what the old-timers, back when I was just starting project management, said the Manhattan Project had been like.”